


Tipsy

by yoolee



Category: SLBP - Fandom, Samurai Love Ballad: PARTY
Genre: Fluff, Total Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoolee/pseuds/yoolee
Summary: She never listens to him.Inuchiyo, Hideyoshi, and MC go drinking, fluff ensues.





	1. Cute

She looked cute. 

She looked impossibly, adorably cute, beaming at Hideyoshi and trying to explain in stumbling, giddy detail the process of gutting a fish. In fact, if he was being honest with himself–and he tried to be, always, in all things that didn’t involve  _her_ –she looked _so_ cute that he wanted nothing more than to drag her against the wood of the shop stall and kiss her senseless.

Instead, he closed his eyes (which only served to make him _more_ aware of her voice, sweet and familiar) and took another very, _very_ large gulp of sake, slamming his cup down for more in hopes that the pleasant buzz would serve to cloud the impulse of desperate kisses to bright lips. He opened his eyes, and tried not to hate how they went to her automatically once more. 

Her sandal, which had been dangling precariously anyway as she swung her feet freely and let it hang from a single toe, fell free. He found then that he wanted to pull her in his arms and keep her there forever, safe from the world that would steal her sweet smile and leave only scars. She swayed like bell when she reached for fallen shoe and his heart stopped. His hand flew out to snatch the cup away from in front of her and he found himself scowling ferociously upon discovering it was empty. Even worse, so was the bottle next to it. The scowl folded into dark fury as he decided whose fault that was, “Damnit, Hideyoshi, what the hell are you thinking, letting her get drunk?" 

Golden haired as an angel and ten times as tricky, his impossible friend only smiled. "Oh dear, we  _have_ had a bit too much haven’t we.” There was something slippery there, and through his own drunken haze Inuchiyo knew it wouldn’t end well for him, but he never  _could_ keep up with the monkey when it was heads instead of fists. Sure enough, the other man was suddenly up and away, flitting off after a pat to Toshiie's shoulders and a singsongy, “Get our girl home safe, okay puppy?" 

 "Don’t call me– _argh_!" But he was gone, and Inuchiyo glared fiercely at his retreating shape, until her hand gripped his sleeves and tugged like a child. 

"Are we going home?” It broke him, the trust and sweetness of her, looking up at him with slightly parted lips and wide pools of golden brown eyes. He looked away, grumbling over a scarlet swathe on his cheeks he wanted badly to blame on sake. His glass had been refilled, and before he stood he downed it all.

 " _You_ are. Come on.” But habits died hard, “The hell are you thinking, drinking so much?“ 

"It’s sweet,” she insisted, and his heart raggedly answered  _like you_ , “And if I drink with you, I can spend time with you." 

That hurt. It shouldn’t, but it did, the easy, careless admission that his time mattered to her, and he reminded himself she was including Hideyoshi in ‘you’ and wished he could forget. She stumbled, and he caught her shoulders as she pressed against him and made him think…she was frozen, some graceless wild thing, all wide, beautiful eyes and trembling lips that watched him and had him trembling in turn.

She smiled, sweet and bright as sunshine, stare dreamy and sleepy from the drink, "Are you gonna kiss me, Inuchiyo?" 

He spluttered, swore, and whirled back to the stall, stretching over and yanking a fresh bottle off of the shelves and slamming his coin down before taking a long pull, not bothering with a cup, because he needed to be more drunk than this to handle her soft, slim hand reaching for his with a giggle, tugging him in the general direction of his home. His own shook as he tightened it, praying she wouldn’t notice. Against his better judgement he handed her the bottle with the other, and she took it, still beaming like stars on cloudless nights, and it struck him, not for the first time, that he didn’t care if it killed him, he’d see her home every night for the rest of his life, for even the chance of seeing for himself that her smile was safe.


	2. Ideas

The bottle was almost empty. 

In its wake was a pleasant, dreamy buzz that kept his thoughts from straying to dangerous. All that was in his head was her, giggling alongside him, cheeks flushed from the same buzz. Her smile was so pretty. So _nice_ and brave, and determined… why anyone would want to hurt her, why anyone would even _dare_ … Inuchiyo scoffed. It still made him mad just thinking about it. "Hey," He tried, and she hummed, only half-acknowledging. "Hey," he repeated, and this time she smiled and he almost forgot what to ask, "Is the magistrate botherin' you any?"

She stopped, and he did too, as she considered. Her brow furrowed, she swayed where she stood. He took quiet relief in the fact nothing fell immediately from her lips, but it faded as she offered, "Well he keeps asking for delivery to his manor." 

Rage swam in his head, turning the view of the moonlit streets blinding white, "Tell me you didn't—"

"'Course not." She smiled, but this time, it wasn't so sure. She reached for the bottle and he surrendered it as her restless hands twisted around the neck. The impulse to hold her returned, and it was his turn to sway, and he yanked his stare to the side, instead. To his _house_. Inuchiyo swore. 

"He tried to get you to his place—that dirty, miserable… who knows what… his _house!_ " Her smile had vanished, and his heart ripped. He wanted to hit something, hug her…"We should burn it down." 

The gulp of sake she had been trying to swallow came back up her nose as the meaning filtered through the buzzed haze to take root. Inuchiyo's eyebrows knitted together even as she stumbled, catching her arm with a single, large hand and pounding on her back with enough force to knock her forward another step. She wheezed around the inhaled sake, trying frantically to get enough air to explain why that was a  _terrible idea_ , but her childhood friend continued on, regardless. "Wouldn't be too hard. Come on, let's go, let's go find some  _matches."_

"No!" She swerved, and reached for him, "Noooo, no no no." His hand was still on her arm, but she turned into it to seize the front of his robes, "No matches, bad—." She lost her balance again, and his other hand found her shoulder, holding her steady against the influence to sway. For a moment, she blinked at him, having sort of… vaguely forgotten what they had been talking about, and trying to understand why his expression was so troubled.

"Listen…that, that rat bastard, he tried—" Inuchiyo began, smile gone. She didn't like that expression. He looked like a forlorn puppy—that made her giggle, albeit guiltily—but it also made her heart hurt, so she rose to her toes, hand lifting to pat his head, which he jerked back in surprise, "—Hey!" though she just leaned forward. "Cut that out!"

His hair was surprisingly soft. Delighted with it, she ran her fingers through, letting the dark, silken strands flow over and around her fingers, and repeating the motion.  _So soft!_  "Your hair's a… a birdnest," She mumbled, and her other hand joined the first to try and smooth it, but getting equally distracted playing with it instead. A mirthful giggle squeaked past her lips. Toshiie spluttered, cheeks brilliantly red—had they been like that before? "You gotta… work on your sa..sake tolerance, 'nuchiyo."—and the hands on her shoulders spasmed.

" _What?_ Hey! I don't wanna hear that from you, Miss Stumbling Sandals, geez." He turned his head to the side and her hand slipped free. She missed the sensation, and tried to reach again, but already on her toes and leaning forward, lost her balance. Easily as an afterthought, he caught her, and equally carelessly bent over, arm shifting around the curve of her hip to her thighs, and tossed her up to his shoulder.

It was her turn to shriek in surprise, arms scrambling for a grip and settling around his head, earning a muffled protest she didn't quite hear. Inuchiyo spluttered, then sighed. His head felt clear. He wasn't sure if that was good or a shame. She squirmed. "Inuchiyo, pumme down!"

"No, you're drunk."

"So're you."

"I'm better at it."

"Only 'cause you… you've got more practice."

She thought she heard a murmur of  _let's keep it that way_ and leaned over to be sure. Her hands pressed onto their grip and suddenly she was distracted and pleased to have access to his hair again, which she gleefully returned to playing with—"Quit that!"

She ran her fingers through it one last time before sulkily letting them go still. She distracted herself from the impulse to resume by blinking around at the new vantage. "Hey… woah, Inuchiyo, you're  _really…"_ Her head tilted, "You're reaaaaally tall."

This earned a smile. "What, you just noticed?"

"I can see the magistrate's house!" She was looking at it, so didn't see the sudden scowl below. Something flickered through her mind, a memory, or a thought, and she seized it, lowering her hands to his shoulders, "Inuchiyo! Inuchiyo let's… let's burn it down!"

A ferocious smile, and he shifted his grip, lowering her so that when her head turned, his forehead met hers. She was smiling again. Smiling again and leaning into him, arms going lax into a sleepy grip around his shoulders.  The ferocity faded into something helpless. She forgot, by the time he answered softly, what he was agreeing to. "Yeah, okay."

She cheered anyway. "Woohoo!" His hands opened, then closed, restless but occupied with keeping her off the ground, but as though they wanted to do something else, and his gaze left her face to look in troubled exasperation at her hair. She, following the line of his eyes, let her head drop, and tucked against his chest, snuggling to the warmth of him and calmed by the strong, steady beat she found there. "I'm sleepy."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know. We're going home." 

She dreamed of fields of soft grass and smiles, and the low, guilty-but-not murmur of  _your ma is gonna kill me…_


	3. Home

It wasn’t that he  _forgot,_ precisely, how small she was. He was far too aware of her, far too conscious of each of movement, to forget. But it still struck him, when she cuddled against him, sleepy, tipsy murmur a soft whistle of sound and lacking coherent syllables, how absurd the strength differential was. Her fingers curled in the fabric across chest, nails dragging it scant breadths away from his skin, closer to the chin tucked against him, and it made his feet nearly miss their next step. "Cut that out," He said it even knowing she would ignore him. Again. Sure enough, she shook her head, the brush of her hair as it shifted tickling his neck with the movement. He took a deep breath. Grumbled, "You never listen to me." This bothered him and, still a bit tipsy himself, he insisted sternly, "You should  _listen_ to me." She snorted, indelicately, and he scowled down at her closed eyes, "I’m older than you!"

"Uh-huh." She conceded.

It didn’t feel like a win. His brow furrowed. "I am."

"Yup."

"Are you listening to me?"

"Nope."

He couldn’t help it. It made him laugh, and he shifted her, trying to ignore the thunk of his heart as the movement of his laughter made the smile stretching sleepily on her features soften. He had a lifetime of practicing that—trying to ignore what she did to him. He never seemed to get any better at it. "Dummy."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Nope, not."

"You’re drunk, too."

"I am—" she pulled back, arching her shape with insulted fluidity, leaving her wrists loose around his neck. He had to snap his stare up to her face, something else that had become as automatically easy as breathing, "— _not_ drunk."

His turn to snort, but he took in the blush across her cheeks, the glassy disfocus of bright eyes, and felt a surge of protectiveness even as his stomach flipped weakly.  _Dummy._ "You’re not, huh?"

"’m not."

"Okay," How far to her house? The urge to see her tucked away from the world, safe and quiet, warred with the need to keep her close, where he could pretend she truly wasn’t any farther from him than the space of his arms. She had settled against him again, snuggling in comfortably and having by all accounts all forgotten that she was pouting at him. The unflinching ease of her forgiveness hurt more than he really wanted to face, softening the roughness of his speech into a murmur as he reached for a topic at random to avoid it, "Then, ah, tell me how to play shogi."

"How to make shōyu?"

"What? No—" But it was too late, she was already leaning back into him as she chattered brightly, entirely in her element as she elaborated on the five different categories of the sauce, and he might have regretted asking only because her hands eventually pulled away from him to animate the instructions, but he found he enjoyed watching them flutter with her thoughts, even if it complicated keeping her balanced. "It’s always food with you, huh?"

She paused, "Hmm?"

"Nothing, we’re home." He winced at the words, and corrected, though she was wiggling to be put down and didn't notice, "Your home, I mean—would you  _stop_ that I’ll put you down in a second—"

"Inuchiyo! Goodness, is my daughter drunk?"

An insistent, " _I am not!"_  came on the same breath as his own, sheepish, "Yeah… she is, sorry." He pressed her head into his shoulder, so she couldn’t say anything else, and tried not to laugh at the indignant huff and silence that followed. Her arms crossed, stiff.

He felt twelve again, and grubby as a child, at the pointed stare of the woman he lacked the courage tell directly that he loved as a mother. The same part of him felt a weak relief when the disapproval softened to amusement, and shook her head, "Well, would you mind getting her up to bed?" That was a terrible idea. He really wanted to tell her that was a  _terrible_ idea, really, but she was continuing, "She’s always depending on you, dear. I’m grateful, but…" The woman trailed off, and then chuckled as though something had occurred to her that she was uninclined to share. 

The silence in his arms struck him as concerning, suddenly, and he glanced down to find the girl in them fast asleep, lips parted and breathing helplessly quiet against his shoulder.  _Oh, hell_ , his heart.  _Shut up,_ his head. 

Not that he needed his head, he supposed. He could close his eyes and walk up the steps to her room a hundred trips over a hundred years, and what he carried up them would always been more precious than his own life, and he would always get her home.

When he laid her down as gently as he could manage with his head still touched with sake and her smile. Her eyes opened anyway. He grinned, despite himself, "Go back to sleep."

She shook her head, and against his better judgment and blaming the sake in his blood, he let her hand find his, curl graceful fingers stained from herbs and faded burns around ones rough from the handle of a sword, and marveled again, at how small it was for the strength it possessed.

(He’d meant it figuratively, but while he was contemplating, she rolled with his hand still caught tight, and he went toppling down onto the blankets himself) "Ack!"

"Oh!" 

Inuchiyo froze at the voice in the door, but it was followed by a chortle, "Well, then, you’d best plan to stay up the night too, dear. There’s talk of some hooligans threatening to burn down the Magistrate’s home out there, anyway."

"Ah, no, this isn’t—"

She ignored him. 

_Apparently that was a family trait._   He tried not to sigh again. It never did any good.

"Not, between you and me, that he doesn’t deserve it. But," She fussed with the apron around her waist, a picture he’d seen a thousand times, and missed every time he left, wishing he knew better how to keep her from worrying, "Well… I just don’t think you should be out. I’ll go get a blanket. Don’t let her kick you too hard. She isn’t a terribly  _graceful_ sleeper, my dear girl."

He  _knew_ that, though he sometimes wished he didn’t, and part of him wanted to yell that she  _was not helping!_ even as the rest of him could kiss the woman, and he felt paralyzed for a moment, between the impulses they were left alone once more, and he was unable to hear anything but the gentle breathing next to him and his own damn, unsteady heartbeat.

And then she sighed his name in her sleep, and reached for him, and the war left his bones entirely.

He flopped to his back, but let her keep his hand cradled in hers, even as he told his other one to stay put, shoving it behind his own head to it prevent it from wrapping her warmth back against him once more. 

He’d leave first thing in the morning, before she could wake up and yell at him. 

And then he’d tell her (again) that she couldn’t keep letting a grown man into her bedroom every time she had too much sake.  


There was a brush against his temple, featherlight and soft as silk, and he closed his eyes at the song of her voice touching where her lips had left, "G’night, Inuchiyo."

And a part of him, he supposed, would be nothing but quietly glad when she (again) ignored him.

"Yeah, yeah. Good night."


End file.
